CHAPTER XIII.

PARSON PLAFORD.

THE Gospel of Holloway Gaol, with which Judge North essayed my
conversion, produced the opposite effect. Parson Plaford, the
prison chaplain, was admirably adapted by nature to preach it. I
have already referred to his gruff voice. He generally taxed it in
his sermon, and I frequently heard his thunderous accents in the
depths of my cell, when he was preaching to the other half of the
establishment. His personal appearance harmonised with his voice.
His countenance was austere, and his manner overbearing. The latter
trait may have been intensified by his low stature. It is a fact of
general observation that there is no pomposity like the pomposity
of littleness. Parson Plaford may be five feet four, but I would
lay anything he is not five feet five. I will, however, do him the
justice of saying that he read the lessons with clearness and good
emphasis, and that he strove to prevent his criminal congregation
from enjoying the luxury of a stealthy nap. He occasionally
furnished them with some amusement by attempting to lead the
singing. The melody of his voice, which suggested the croak of an
asthmatical raven, threw them into transports of sinister
appreciation; and the remarkable manner in which he sometimes
displayed the graces of Christian courtesy to the schoolmaster
afforded them an opportunity of contrasting the chaplain with the
Governor.

Parson Plaford's deity was an almighty gaoler. The reverend
gentlemen took a prison view of everything. He had a habit, as I
learned, of asking new comers what was their sentence, and
informing them that it ought to have been twice as long. In his
opinion, God had providentially sent them there to be converted
from sin by the power of his ministry. I cannot say, however, that
the divine experiment was attended with much success. The chaplain
frequently told us from the pulpit that he had some very promising
cases in the prison, but we never heard that any of them ripened to
maturity. When he informed us of these hopeful apprentices to
conversion, I noticed that the prisoners near me eyed him as I
fancy the Spanish gypsies eyed George Borrow when they heard him
read the Bible. Their silence was respectful, but there was an
eloquent criticism in their squint.

After one of his frequent absences in search of health, Parson
Plaford related with great gusto a real case of conversion. On one
particular morning a prisoner was released, who expressed sincere
repentance for his sins, and the chaplain's locum tenens had
written in the discharge book that he believed it was "a real case
of conversion to God." That very morning, I found by comparing
notes, also witnessed the release of Mr. Kemp. All the parson-power
of Holloway Gaol had failed to shake his Freethought. His
conversion would have been a feather in the chaplain's hat, but it
could not be accomplished. The utmost that could be achieved was
the conversion of a Christian to Christianity.

On another occasion, Parson Plaford ingenuously illustrated the
character of prison conversions. An old hand, a well-known criminal
who had visited the establishment with wearisome frequency, was
near his discharge. He had an interview with the chaplain and
begged assistance. "Sir," he said, "I've told you I was converted
before, and you helped me. It wasn't true, I know; but I am really
converted this time. God knows it sir." But the chaplain would not
be imposed upon again. He declined to furnish the man with the
assistance he solicited. "And then," said the preacher, with tears
in his voice, "he cursed and swore; he called me the vilest names,
which I should blush to repeat, and I had to order him out of the
room." "Oh," he continued, "it is an ungrateful world. But holy
scripture says that in the latter days unthankfulness shall abound,
and these things are signs that the end is approaching. Blessed be
God, some of us are ready to meet him." These lachrymose utterances
were the precursors of a long disquisition on his favorite topic --
the end of the world, the grand wind-up of the Lord's business. We
were duly initiated into the mysteries of prophecy, a subject
which, as South said, either finds a man cracked or leaves him so.
The latter days and the last days were accurately distinguished,
and it was obscurely hinted that we were within measurable distance
of the flaming catastrophe.

Over forty sermons fell from Parson Plaford's lips into my
critical ears, and I never detected a grain of sense in any of
them. Nor could I gather that he had read any other book than the
Bible. Even that he appeared to have read villainously, for he
seemed ignorant of much of its contents, and he told us many things
that are not in it. He placed a pen in the fingers of the
man's hand which disturbed Belshazzar's feast, and gave us many
similar additions to holy writ. Yet he was singularly devoid of
imagination. He took everything in the Bible literally, even the
story of the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the apostles in the
shape of cloven tongues of fire. "They were like this," he said,
making an angle with the knuckles of his forefinger on the top of
his bald head, and looking at us with a pathetic air of sincerity.
It was the most ludicrous spectacle I ever witnessed.

During the few visits he paid me, Parson Plaford was fairly
civil. Mr. Ramsey seems to have been the subject of his
impertinence. My fellow-prisoner was informed that we deserved
transportation for life. Yet at that time the chaplain had not even
seen the publication for which we were imprisoned! However,
his son had, and he was "a trustworthy young man." Towards the end
of his term Mr. Ramsey found the charitable heart of the man of God
relent so far as to allow that transportation for life was rather
too heavy a punishment for our offence, which only deserved
perpetual detention in a lunatic asylum.

For the last ten months of my term Parson Plaford neither
honoured nor dishonored my cell with his presence. Soon after I was
domiciled in the A wing he called to see me. I rose from my stool
and made him a satirical bow. This greeting, however, was too
freezing for his effusiveness. Notwithstanding the opinion of us he
had expressed to Mr. Ramsey, and with which I was of course
unacquainted, he extended his hand as though he had known me for
years.

"Ah," he said, "this is a sorry sight. Your trouble is mental I
know. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. You are here for
breaking the law, you know." "Yes," I replied, "such as it is. But
the law is broken every week. Millions of people abstain from
attending church on Sunday, yet there is an unrepealed law which
commands them to."

"Yes, and I'd make them," was the fiery answer from the little
man, as the bigot flamed in his eyes.

"Come now," I said, "you couldn't if you tried."

"Well," he said, "you've got to suffer. But even if you are a
martyr, you don't suffer what our martyrs did."

"Perhaps not," I retorted, "but I suffer all your creed is able
to inflict. Doesn't it occur to you as strange and monstrous that
Christianity, which boasts so of its own martyrs, should in turn
persecute all who differ from it? Suppose Freethought had the upper
hand, and served you as you serve us: wouldn't you think it
shameful?"

"Of course," he blurted. Then, correcting himself, he added:
"But you never will get the upper hand."

"How do you know?" I asked. "Freethought has the upper
hand in France."

"Yes," he replied, "but that is an infidel country. It will
never be so here."

"But suppose," I continued, "it were so here, and we
imprisoned you for deriding our opinions as you imprison us for
deriding yours. Would you not say you were persecuted?"

"Oh," he said, "that's a different thing."

Mr. Bradlaugh was then mentioned.

"By the way, you're remarkably like him," said the chaplain.

I thought it a brilliant discovery, and still more so when I
learned, a few minutes later, that he had not seen Mr. Bradlaugh
for thirty years.

Darwin was referred to next.

"I suppose you know he's been disproved," said the chaplain,
complacently.

"No, I don't," I answered; "nor do I quite understand what you
mean. What has been disproved?"

"Why," he said, "I mean that man isn't a monkey."

"Indeed!" I rejoined; "I am not aware that Darwin ever said that
man is a monkey. Nor do I think so myself -- except in some
extreme cases."

Whether this was construed as a personality or not I am unable
to decide, but our interview soon terminated. Parson Plaford called
on me two or three times during the next few weeks, promised me
some good books to read as soon as the regulations permitted, and
fulfilled his promise by never visiting me again.

Mr. Ramsey was nursed a little longer. I suppose the chaplain
had hopes of him. But he finally relinquished them when Mr. Ramsey
said one Monday morning, on being asked what he thought of
yesterday's sermon, "I wonder how you could talk such nonsense.
Why, I could preach a better sermon myself."

"Could you?" bristled the little man. And from that moment he
gave Mr. Ramsey up for lost.

One day the chaplain ran full butt against Mr. Kemp in the
corridor. "Ah," he said, "how are you getting on?" Mr. Kemp made a
curt reply. The fact was, he was chewing a small piece of tobacco,
an article which does somehow creep into the prison in minute
quantities, and is swapped for large pieces of bread. Mr. Kemp was
enjoying the luxury, although it would have been nauseous in other
circumstances; for the prison fare is so insipid that even a dose
of medicine is an agreeable change. Now Parson Plaford and Mr. Kemp
are about the same height, and lest the chaplain should see or
smell the tobacco, the little blasphemer was obliged to turn his
head aside, hoping the conversation would soon end. But the little
parson happened to be in a loquacious mood, and the interview was
painfully prolonged. Next Sunday there was a withering sermon on
"infidels," who were described as miserable persons that "dare not
look you in the face."

Parson Plaford seemed to be on very intimate terms with his
maker. If his little finger ached, the Lord meant something by it.
Yet, although he was always ready to be called home, he was still
more ready to accept the doctor's advice to take a holiday when he
felt unwell. The last sermon I heard him preach was delivered
through a sore throat, a chronic malady which he exasperated by
bawling. He told us that the work and worry were too much for him,
and the doctor had ordered him rest, if he wished to live. He was
going away for a week or two to see what the Lord meant to do with
him; and I afterwards heard some of the prisoners wonder what the
Lord was doing with him. "I speak to you as a dying man,"
said the chaplain, as he had said several times before when he felt
unwell; and as it might be the last time he would ever preach
there, he besought somebody, as a special act of gratitude, to get
saved that very day.

One of the prisoners offered a different reason for the
chaplain's temporary retirement. "He ain't ill, sir. I knows what
'tis. I was down at the front when your friend Mr. Ramsey went out.
There was a lot of coaches and people, and the parson looked as
white as a ghost. He thinks ther'll be more coaches and people when
you goes out, and he's gone off sooner than see 'em."

During the chaplain's absences his locum tenens was
usually a gentleman of very opposite characteristics. He was tall,
thin, modest, and even diffident. He slipped into your cell, as I
said before, with the deferential air of an undertaker. His speech
was extremely soft and rapid, although he stuttered a little now
and then from nervousness. "I suppose you know," I asked on his
first visit, "what I am here for?" "Y-e-s," he stammered, with
something like a blush. I said no more, for it was evident he
wished to avoid the subject, and I really think he was sorry to see
me persecuted in the name of Christ. He had called, he said, to see
whether he could do anything for me. Could he lend me any books? I
thanked him for the proffered kindness, but I had my own books to
read by that time. Mr. Stubbs's sermons were much superior to Mr.
Plaford's. They were almost too good for the congregation. He dwelt
with fondness on the tender side of Christ's character, and seemed
to look forward to a heaven which would ultimately contain
everybody.

On one occasion we had a phenomenal old gentleman in the pulpit.
He was white-haired but florid. His appearance was remarkably
youthful, and his voice sonorous. I heard that he was assistant
chaplain at one of the other London prisons. With the most
exemplary fidelity he went through the morning service, omitting
nothing; unlike Parson Plaford, who shortened it to leave time for
his sermon. I wondered whether he would get through it by
dinner-time, or whether he would continue it in the afternoon. But
he just managed to secure ten minutes for his sermon, which began
with these extraordinary words, that were sung out at the top of
his voice: "When the philosopher observes zoophyte formations on
the tops of mountains, he," etc. How singularly appropriate it was
to the congregation. The sermon was not exactly "Greek" to them,
but it was all "zoophyte." I heard some of them wonder when that
funny old boy was coming again.

The prisoners sit in chapel on backless benches, tier above
tier, from the rails in front of the clerk's desk almost to the
roof behind. Two corners are boarded off within the rails, one for
the F wing and the other for the debtors' wing. Above them is a
long gallery, with private boxes for the governor, the doctor and
the chief warder, and a pulpit for the chaplain. Parson Plaford
used to make a great noise in closing the heavy door behind the
pulpit, leading to the front of the prison; and he rattled the keys
as though he loved the sound. He placed them on the desk beside the
"sacred volume," and I used to think that the Bible and the keys
went well together. In offering his first private prayer, as well
as in his last after the benediction, he always covered his face
with the sleeve of his robe, lest, I suppose, the glory of his
countenance, while communicating with his maker, should afflict us
as the insufferable splendor of the face of Moses afflicted the
Jews at Mount Sinai. His audible prayers were made kneeling with
clasped hands and upturned face. His eyes were closed tightly, his
features were painfully contracted, and his voice was a falsetto
squeak. I fancy the Governor must have sighed at the performance.
The doctor never troubled to attend it.

The prisoners were supposed to cross their hands in front while
in chapel. Several unsuccessful attempts were made to induce me to
conform to the regulation. I declined to strike prescribed
attitudes. Another rule, pretty rigorously enforced, was that the
prisoners should look straight before them. If a head was turned
aside, an officer bawled out "Look to your front." I once heard the
injunction ludicrously interpolated in the service. "Dearly beloved
brethren," said the chaplain. "Look to your front," growled the
officer. It was text and comment.

Only once did I see a prisoner impressed. The man sat next to
me; his face was red, and he stared at the chaplain with a pair of
goggle eyes. Surely, I thought, the parson is producing an effect.
As we were marching back to our cells I heard a sigh. Turning
round, I saw my harvest-moon-faced friend in an ecstacy. It was
Sunday morning, and near dinner time. Raising his hands, while his
goggle eyes gleamed like wet pebbles, the fellow ejaculated --
"Pudden next."

I have already referred to the chapel music, in which the
schoolmaster played such a distinguished part. A few more notes on
this subject may not be out of place. There was a choir of a dozen
or so prisoners, most of whom were long-term men in some position
of trust. Short-timers are not, I believe, eligible for membership;
indeed, the whole public opinion of the establishment is against
these unfortunates, who have committed no crime worth speaking of;
and I still remember with what a look of disgust the worthy
schoolmaster once described them to me as "Mere parasites, here
to-day and gone to-morrow." Having a bit of a voice, I was invited
to join the sweet psalmists of Holloway; but I explained that I was
only a spectator of the chapel performances, and could not possibly
become an assistant. The privileges enjoyed by the choristers are
not, however, to be despised. They drop their work two or three
times a week for practice, and they have an advantage in matters
which are trifling enough outside, but very important in prison. In
chapel they sit together on the front benches, and if they smile
and whisper they are not so sharply reprimanded as the common herd
behind them.

Another privileged class were the cooks, who occupied the last
bench, and rested their backs against the wall. They were easily
distinguished by their hair being greased, no other prisoners
having fat enough to waste on such a luxury.

Saturday morning's chapel hour was devoted to general practice,
which was known as the cat's chorus. Imagine three or four hundred
prisoners all learning a new tune! Some of the loudest voices were
the most unmusical, and the warblers at the rear were generally
behind in time as well as in space. How they floundered, gasped,
broke down, got up again, and shuffled along as before till the
next collapse! Sometimes they gave it up as hopeless, a few first,
and then others, until some silly fellow was left shrilling alone,
when he too would suddenly stop, as though frightened at the sound
of his own voice.

I noticed, however, that whenever an evangelical hymn was sung
to an old familiar tune, they all joined in, and rattled through it
with great satisfaction. This confirmed the notion I had acquired
from previous reading, that nine out of every ten prisoners in our
English gaols have been Sunday-school children, or attendants at
church or chapel. Scepticism has not led them to gaol, and religion
has not kept them out of it.

Parson Plaford, as I have said, never visited me after the
second month. He heard my defence on the third trial before Lord
Coleridge, and sadly confessed to Mr. Ramsey that he was afraid I
was a hardened sinner. He appears to have had some hopes of my
fellow prisoner, whom he continued to visit for another month. Mr.
Ramsey encouraged him in doing so, for a conversation with anyone
and on anything is a welcome break in the monotony of silence. But
when he got books to read there was less need of these interviews,
and they soon ceased. Mr. Ramsey informs me, however, that the
chaplain called on him just before he left, and asked whether he
could offer any suggestions as to the "system." The old gentleman
admitted that he had been operating on prisoners for over twenty
years without the least success.

The chaplain often confided to us in his sermons that prisoners
came to him pretending they had derived great good from his
ministrations, only in order to gain some little privilege. I
learned, also, from casual conversations in the exercise-ground,
that the old gentleman had his favorites, who were not always held
in the same esteem and affection by their companions. They were
generally regarded as spies and tell-tales, and the men were very
cautious of what they said and did in the presence of these elect.
Piety was looked upon as a species of humbug, although (so
persistent is human nature) a really good, generous man would have
been liked and respected. "I could be pious for a pound a day,"
said one prisoner in my hearing, with reference to the chaplain's
salary. "Yes," said the man he spoke to, "so could I, or 'arf of
it."

One Sunday the lesson was the story of Peter's miraculous rescue
from prison. "Ah," said an old fellow to his pal, "that was a good
yarn we heard this morning. I'd like to see th' angel git 'im out
o' Holloway."

Parson Plaford was evangelical, but a thorough Churchman, and he
had a strong preference for those of his own sect. There was in the
prison a young fellow, the son of a wealthy member of Parliament,
whose name I need not disclose. He was doing eighteen months for
getting into difficulties on the turf, and mistaking his father's
name for his own. Having plenty of money, he was able to establish
communication with his friends outside; and this being detected,
the Governor kept him constantly on the move from wing to wing, and
corridor to corridor, so that he might have no time to grow
familiar with the officers and corrupt their integrity. The plan
was a good one, but it did not succeed. Young officers, who work
ninety or a hundred hours a week, with only two off Sundays in
three months, for twenty-three shillings, cannot always be expected
to resist a bribe.

The young scapegrace I refer to was very anxious to get out of
his cell, and he applied to the chaplain for the post of
schoolmaster's assistant. The duties of this office are to help
bind the books and keep the library catalogue, and to carry the
basket of literature when the schoolmaster goes the round. Parson
Plaford would not entertain the application. "No," he said, "I
begin to think your religious notions are very unsound. I must have
a good Churchman for the post." Well, the chaplain got his good
Churchman; it was an old hand, sentenced twice before to long terms
for felony, and then doing another five or seven years for burglary
and assault.